


murphy's law

by OnyxSphynx



Series: newmann one-shots [93]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Hopeful Ending, M/M, but who's surprised really, in which the precursors fuck things up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 21:35:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20453906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphynx/pseuds/OnyxSphynx
Summary: Newt hasn't seen Hermann in ages, but with an invitation to his parents' home in Germany, there's a chance to see him again—and they've been on good terms, so what could go wrong?





	murphy's law

**Author's Note:**

> drsarah1281 asked: "With Hermann's British accent and overall Britishness, Newt refuses to believe Hermann has even been to Germany let alone went to school there"

Hermann, Newt knows, logically, is, indeed, German. It’s a fact; the world is round, the seas were spilling forth deadly monsters for twelve years, Newt is still kinda crushing on his maybe-friend, Hermann Gottlieb, and Hermann is, somehow, German. Honestly, though, with Hermann’s British accent and his…_Britishness_ (Briticisms? Britishisms? who knows), Newt refuses to believe Hermann’s ever even _been_ to Germany, let alone that he went to _school_ there.

Like, yeah, _technically,_ Newt knows he was born and raised there, but like…cognitive dissonance, man, _seriously._ _Nothing_ about Hermann says ‘German'—well, besides the emotional repression. He’ll concede to that.

So when, a few years after the war, Hermann emails him an invitation to come keep him company at his parents’ on an obligatory family visit, Newt—well, Newt takes one look at it and nearly falls over laughing. One of the interns sends him a slightly fearful look, which, _not fair,_ he’s not _that_ bad. He laughs. Sometimes. Okay, basically _never, _unless it’s something bad, but that doesn’t mean they should _fear_ him!

Anyway.

After his shock passes, he accepts enthusiastically on the spot—_nearly._

_He’s been ignoring you, though,_ points out the voice in his head, _should you really do this? Isn’t it kind of unfair of him to not talk to you and then expect you to go see him at the drop of a hat?_

“Yeah, but…” he trails off. “I _miss_ him.”

_He doesn’t miss_ you.

“I can’t know that for sure,” Newt shoots back. “Look, I’ll go, and maybe he does want to reconnect, or maybe not, but it can’t hurt, right?”

“Um, sir…?” says one of the interns, quailing when he turns to the kid.

“_What?_” he snaps.

The kid gulps. “It’s just, sir, you’ve…you’ve been talking to yourself for the past ten minutes,” he says, and then quails a bit more. “I—I’ll get back to work,” he squeaks, scuttling away.

Jesus, were people _always_ this twitchy around him? He sighs and takes a sip of his coffee.

He does, though; miss Hermann, that is. It’s not really either of their faults that they’ve drifted (hah, _drifted_)—Newt’s busy as fuck, and Hermann is, too, what with all that improvement of the algorithms in the Jaegers and simplifying Drift tech, and, well, it seems like there’s just never any time. Whenever Newt sits down to draft an email, or, hell, even send a text, his mind goes…_blank._

And, of course, he can’t just send Hermann a—a _meme,_ because he may have done that, years and years ago, but now, after…_after,_ it seems like words just…_fail,_ and honestly? Newt doesn’t want to be anything but _perfect_ for Hermann.

It’s not…_love,_ exactly—well, it is that, too, some, but Newt seems to have gone and taken on Hermann’s perfectionist streak since.

Well, that and a lovely dose of traumatic childhood memories, but whatever, he’s dealing.

Still, the thought of seeing Hermann again ignites some sort of manic energy in his blood; he’s _definitely_ running a bit higher than he normally would for the rest of the day.

* * *

Newt spends the plane-ride nearly vibrating out of his seat, leg jittering so much that at one point he hits the tray, sending his cup of water spilling all over his pants, necessitating a rather embarrassing process of blotting at the wet spot on his lap with a few dozen paper towels.

The in-flight entertainment is mediocre, but it blocks out the sound of some poor lady’s kid waking up at three in the morning and screaming its head off, so that’s a win.

He gets off the flight, expecting—

Well, expecting _something._

Hermann meets him at the gate; he’s pale, face drawn, and there are bags growing beneath his eyes; he squints in the harsh light of the airport, eyes hidden partially behind glasses. “Fuck, dude, you look like _shit,_” Newt says, without thought.

“Newton,” Hermann greets. He sounds horribly tired, and his voice is flat. “Thank you for your astute observation. Are you ready to go?”

“I—yeah, yeah, gimme a second,” Newt says, and readjusts his grip on his suitcase. “Okay, let’s go.”

Hermann leads him out to the parking-lot and to a little red car. “Wait,” Newt says, as he pops the trunk, “Herms, you’re not going to _drive,_ are you—? ‘Cause you’re barely able to walk in a straight like—”

“I’m _fine,_” Hermann snaps, and pulls the driver’s door open. “Now, unless you’ve magically been bestowed with the knowledge of how to get to my—_parents’_ house, I suggest you allow _me_ to do the driving.”

“Fine,” Newt mutters. Has Hermann always been this _prickly?_ Maybe it’s just his imagination, but he could’ve _sworn_ they were on better terms the last time they talked—well, _emailed._

Come to speak of it, when _was_ the last time they emailed? Newt’s pretty sure that the last thing he wrote was a few months ago, but his sent mail shows that the last thing was a few weeks ago, and he doesn’t have _any_ memory of writing it…

Oh, well; it must’ve been late at night, and he’s just forgotten.

The drive goes by in silence; Hermann doesn’t speak beyond short, simplistic answers to Newt’s attempts at kindling up a conversation, and Newt runs out of ideas pretty soon.

It’s…_awkward._ It _shouldn’t_ be awkward, but for some reason, it is. It reminds him painfully of the first few years they worked together, after that disaster of a first meeting. He really hopes that whatever it is dissipates by tomorrow, because he doesn’t really want to spent the next three days like _this._

* * *

The next day is strained; he barely sees Hermann.

The second day is an unmitigated disaster of epic proportions that sends Newt back to the flat in Shanghai early.

“_Mistletoe?_” Hermann hisses, taking a step back, but it’s too late; Newt’s already stepped under the doorway—and, he realises, a moment later, when he looks up, right beneath a sprig of mistletoe. He takes a moment to appreciate that it’s got white berries instead of the red that the ones he usually sees do, and then lets the dread creep in.

Hermann, meanwhile, has rounded on the nearest person—Newt himself. “Do you think this is _funny?_” he demands; shaking, now slightly, teeth grit.

Newt raises his hands placatingly. “Dude, chill, I’m not laughing, I swear,” he says. “We can just pretend it never happened and not do anything, since there’s no one else around to know—” And of course, at that moment, Dietrich walks in.

He raises a brow at the two of them, and Hermann reddens—embarrassment, Newt knows. “_Fine,_” he snaps.

“No, dude, look, you don’t have to do it if it makes you uncomfortable—” Newt begins to protest, but Hermann’s already crossed the gap between them, his mouth pressing against Newt’s, hard an fast; angry. When he pulls back, a second later, his expression is blank, and he takes a step back; then another; drags his hand across his mouth. “There,” he says—spits, more.

Newt cringes back, the words like a blow, shrinking in on himself. “I need—” he starts, some excuse spilling forth—he doesn’t even know what, but right now, he just needs to get _out._

He packs his stuff all back up, hands trembling, barely seeing what’s in front of him with how thickly the tears are falling, leaving splotches on the lenses of his glasses. _We told you,_ hisses the voice, _he’s bad for you._

Yeah, no _shit,_ Sherlock, Newt thinks viciously—god, Hermann’s _awful._ He was bad when they were younger, but apparently he’s only soured with age. He probably knows Newt’s feelings, and that’s why he was so squeamish about it—which, you know, _fair,_ but it _hurts_ that he didn’t just _talk_ to Newt, or, you know, do literally anything besides…_that._

Maybe when he gets back, Alice’ll make him numb for a bit.

* * *

When Hermann kisses him again—(only the second time, and yet)—it’s also sharp and hard; his teeth knock Newt’s, the angle all off; to be fair, Newt’s strapped upright in a chair that reminds him vaguely of dentists’ offices as a kid, and it’s a kiss of desperation and desperate joy more than it’s meant to be romantic.

When he pulls back, though, this time, he remains close; hovering, there, right by Newt’s side—finally, finally real.

“At least you weren’t disgusted this time,” Newt croaks, voice hoarse from all the shouting the Precursors have done in the past who knows how long before they were kicked out. “Do I look better or are you just glad the aliens that were using my body to bring about Apocalypse 2.0 are no longer kicking around?”

Hermann’s eyes widen; involuntarily, Newt thinks; and he cracks the thinnest, most tired smile Newt’s ever seen him give. “_Newton,_” he admonishes, and then, softer, “I wasn’t…_disgusted._”

It’s not a conversation they _should_ be having, not like this, but Newt’s got the worst timing of anyone, and it’s long overdue, so he says, “Uh huh, that’s why you looked like you wanted to stab me,” and wriggles his fingers.

“We _really_ shouldn’t have this conversation until later,” Hermann says, voicing Newt’s own thoughts.

“Carpe diem, or whatever,” Newt shoots back.

The look Hermann gives him is fondness mixed with irritation; tipping, now, Newt thinks, more towards _fondness._ “I wasn’t _disgusted,_” Hermann repeats, and then, gaze slipping to the ground, “I was merely…_confused._ I knew that we were no longer as close as we had been, but up until your last email…we at least seemed, still, to be _friends._”

Newt frowns at him; the motion making him, a moment later, wince in pain, as it pulls at the dry and cracked skin of his lips, already splitting from Hermann’s badly-executed kiss. “_I_thought we were, too,” he says, “and then I got down to your folks’ place and you were super distant, with, like, no explanation? And then, well…” he trails off. “Also, I’m pretty sure my last email to you was the one where I enthusiastically accepted your invitation, so.”

Hermann gives a sad smile. “It wasn’t,” he says. “It…it wasn’t. And, looking back on it, I know it wasn’t _you,_ truly, either, but at the time, I had no knowledge…no _idea_ what was going on.”

“Hold on,” Newt says, sharply, “are you saying that the Precursors _wrote you an email_ from me that was kind of shitty and that’s why you were so distant and acted like I’d kicked your puppy when we got caught under the mistletoe? Because, uh, _what the hell?_”

“Yes, well,” Hermann says, “like I said, had I known any differently…regardless, I admit that my actions were rather unfair; I shouldn’t’ve been avoiding you—I should’ve just talked to you about the contents of the email. I was, however, rather stressed, what with the sudden increase of Drift-bleed nightmares and work. I…” he pauses. “I’m not saying that those _excuse_ it in any way, but I hope you understand that I wasn’t, necessarily, operating at my best.”

“Oh.” Newt runs his tongue over his teeth. “Wait, Drift-bleed nightmares? Oh, shit, uh,” he laughs nervously; wishes he could run his hands through his hair. “That’s…that’s kinda my fault. I started Drifting with Alice, what…five? six? Months before that…come to think of it, that’s when the voices in my head started getting worse…” he trails off.

Then, haltingly, he asks, “Um, what…what exactly did they say? In the email?”

Hermann hesitates. “I—perhaps it’s best to wait,” he suggests, “it’s nothing—_bad,_ per se, but I know it would be upsetting to you—”

“_Please,_” Newt says, “look, Hermann, I—I _need_ to know that it wasn’t us—that it was them, that they’re why we wound up here. Please?”

Hermann wavers for a second before he sighs. “Alright,” he says, softly. “It…essentially, they spent the entirety of the email deriding my own feeling towards you, that you—_they_ had seen during the Drift, and ending with a few remarks of the more obscene variety as to the distaste y—_they_felt for them. Needless to say,” he adds, drily, “I was rather shocked, and, quite frankly, a bit _upset_ when you called me before your flight took off to ask when and where I was going to pick you up.”

“…_oh,_” Newt says, softly, after a moment, because. _Fuck._ “Oh, Hermann, I’m _so_ sorry, shit, that's—” he laughs a little, then; high and a bit hysterical, and says, emphatically, “Fuck. _Fuck._” Tears—oh, right, tears, that’s why his eyes are stinging. He blinks rapidly.

Hermann reaches out; hesitant; and puts his hand on Newt’s cheek. “Newton,” he says, firmly, “Newton, listen to me. I do _not_ blame you for that, not anymore. I promise—alright?”

After a few moments, Newt manages to choke, “Okay, yeah—okay. Fuck, though, Hermann, I—” he bites his lip. “I’m sorry,” he says, again, and hates how hollow it sounds. “I—how can you even look at me anymore? I mean, I basically spat on your feelings, and then went on to attempt genocide.”

“_That_ was not you,” Hermann says; sharply. “Newton, you must understand—that was _not_ you, alright? And you _didn’t_ 'spit on my feelings’; and _their_ plan didn’t succeed. Newton—_Newt,_” he says, and then pauses. “Newt, we may be cracked and broken, but superglue exists.”

That makes Newt laugh. “Jesus,” he says, “that’s an awful metaphor.”

“Yes, well,” Hermann smiles, “I learnt from the best, after all.”

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [pacificrimdyke](https://pacificrimdyke.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
